


The Conqueror

by quiteanerdling



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall as furniture, Cock Cages, Conan the barbarian, Conan!AU, Concubine!Cullen, Crack Fic, Dom/sub, F/M, Hate Sex, M/M, Melodrama, Multi, Oral Sex, Public Humiliation, Trope Inversion, concubine!Blackwall, concubine!Iron Bull, inappropriate clothing choices, pulp fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteanerdling/pseuds/quiteanerdling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Between the time when the Fade swallowed Arlathan, and the rise of the children of the Dales, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world. Hither came Lavellan, destined to bear the jeweled crown of Andraste on a troubled brow. It is I, her Chronicler, who alone can tell thee of her saga.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Let me tell you of the days of high adventure…</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Days of High Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> One of the lovely readers here asked me to repost this, so here goes! I make no promises about EVER updating this, but hopefully you enjoy what nonsense there is! Original note below:
> 
> Inspired by my love of cheesy 80s sword and sorcery films, and the utterly ridiculous cheesecake art associated with Robert E. Howard's titular character. It all started with [this post](http://cassandrashipsit.tumblr.com/post/137181637507/zora-zen-cassandrashipsit-at-some-point-i-am) on Tumblr regarding my desire to see my f!Lavellan immortalized a la Conan with a giant sword and the men of the Inquisition as her scantily clad concubines. Things... kind of spiraled out of control, in the way most of my AUs do. Please note, since someone was concerned, that there is no sexual slavery AT ALL, at least on the part of the Conqueror. Everyone is happy to wear their loincloths and take a turn tumbling in the furs.
> 
> ETA: I forgot people made a couple fan art pics for this AU! Apparently concubine!Bull was VERY inspiring. Links are NSFW. 
> 
> [Bull and his tiger (she wouldn't let him have a dragon)](http://fatalmirage.tumblr.com/post/137460539253/cassandrashipsit-did-somebody-ask-for) (REALLY nsfw)  
> [Cheesecake Bull](http://kinixys.tumblr.com/post/137362500606/i-have-sinned-based-on-this-post)(Mildly nsfw)

They bring Garrett Hawke before her in chains, pulled to an abrupt stop some five paces from her throne. Varric has attempted to vouch for him, but the Right Hand refuses to let him near the throne of her mistress with his magic unbound. They call her the Conqueror and the picture her court presents is unnerving. The Right Hand is in full armor, scarred face distrustful, dark hair in a long braid over her shoulder, watching him suspiciously from the dais.The court mages stand opposite her - both dark skinned, both scantily clad, and both _terrifying_. The one in leather looks at him with interest, as though he might make a fine meal, before saying something to the woman in the horned headdress that makes her laugh.

He is there to face the woman on the throne, but her concubines make a distracting picture. They are at her feet, oiled bodies on display in the shimmering golden light of the candle filled chandeliers and brightly burning torches around the hall. Heavy furs and cushions are strewn about for them to lounge on, braziers to warm their muscled bodies.

A massive, one eyed qunari, the largest Hawke has even seen, with a rack as wide as his shoulders is sitting near the mages, petting a massive, white and black striped cat the size of a large mabari. The silver skinned giant is huge and unnerving, face slashed with scars. Yet his pointed horns are capped in dawnstone, the pink a startling contrast to their nearly black surface. The small loin cloth he wears does almost nothing to hide his assets, which are frankly _alarming_ in their generosity. The only other thing on him is a black leather strap across his chest, and an intricate dawnstone eye patch strapped to his horns with matching chains

At the feet of the Conqueror, quite literally, for she uses him as a foot rest, is a bearded man, body corded with muscle, scars, and hair, who appears to be entirely naked, only one well muscled thigh doing anything to hide him from the great hall. His thick, dark hair is faintly streaked with silver, pulled back into a loose bun. Every time the Conqueror shifts, the man’s muscles twitch, but he stays still and does not protest.

Pulling his gaze away from the dark haired man, Hawke realizes with a start that he recognizes the blond concubine who is pressed to one arm of the great throne. Cullen Rutherford wears nothing more than some kind of highly inadequate coat, his golden curls contrasting to the dark fur around his neck. The last time Hawke saw the Templar the Gallows were falling and Knight Commander Meredith had become a statue. Now, the trappings of his faith are discarded, and he worships at the feet of a very different prophet.

The deep red silk leaves much of Cullen’s body on display, though a fold of the coat is strategically placed to cover the juncture of his thighs. Other than the coat he wears nothing more than kohl and gold jewelry, a beautiful collar, bangles, and anklets. He seems so different that Hawke cannot help but wonder if perhaps this is a twin brother, long left behind in Ferelden. Yet when the blond smirks at him, mouth bearing an interesting new scar, there is definite recognition on his handsome face.

“Cassandra, why is the Champion of Kirkwall in chains. Has he committed some crime against me I do not know of?” The voice is low, a bit gravelly, and amused.

Hawke finally pulls his eyes away from Cullen’s muscular chest (who knew he he had been hiding such riches all this time?) to look at the woman on the throne. She… is not what he expects. For one, she is an elf, which no one bothered to mention, though that itself is no great surprise. That the Conqueror should be a lowly elf would damage the reputations of her enemies even more. Her hair is white, shaved at the sides and pulled back, crested high on her head with a braid to rival Cassandra’s over her shoulder. There is a gold circlet resting on her forehead with a gleaming black stone at its center.

“He is dangerous, your worship. He defeated the Arishok in single combat, assisted in the destruction of the Kirkwall Circle, and has hidden from Chantry forces for _years_. I would be remiss in my duty if I let him approach you with his magic unchecked.” Cassandra scowls at him, voice dripping with disgust.

To his surprise, the Conqueror laughs. Her teeth flash as white as her hair in her dark face. He cannot make out the color of her eyes, only that they are very pale.

“Cassandra, he is one man, and _I_ am not so foolish or so prideful as to challenge him to single combat. If he can defeat me and all of my forces in my own hall, well by all means, let him, he will deserve all he wins. Assuming I lived, I would be first to kneel at his feet.” There is heat in the look she gives him, even from such a distance.

“If you’d like,” Hawke says, refusing to be cowed. “I will happily let you kneel for me, my lady, even _without_ the defeat. I would not even use you for furniture.”

Another laugh, this one short and sharp. She takes her booted feet down from the bearded man’s back, grabbing him by the hair and lifting him up until she can reach down and kiss him, full on the mouth, though her eyes do not leave Hawke for a moment. With the man fully exposed, Hawke can see his cock trapped in a silver cage, set with glittering sapphires, the metal circling around behind his balls to hold it in place. Hawke stares, for no one else in the hall seems the least shocked by any of it. The Conqueror pulls her mouth away from her concubine with a wicked smile, gauntleted hand still fisting in his hair.

“My dear Rainier made the grave mistake of lying to me. He is happy to make amends in any way I choose. Fear not Champion, I let him out of his cage. Sometimes…” She shoves the man, Rainier, away from her in the general direction of the qunari, who helps steady the smaller man, pulling him back against his massive chest. The giant cat makes a rumbling noise of complaint then rolls over, ears twitching. It is all so surreal that he almost fails to notice when the Conqueror stalks down from the throne.

The scant clothing of her concubines and mages seems less strange for she wears little enough herself. Gold and black gauntlets, the fingers tipped like claws, gold bracers and arm bands are well enough, but her tunic, if one is feeling generous enough to call it such a thing, seems little more than a kind of golden scale mail bib draped over her chest, shifting in distracting ways as she walks. It falls from a complicated golden gorget, stopping just above the lower curve of her breasts, anchored in place by gold chains.

Her taut stomach is painted with patterns in gold, guiding the eye down past her pierced navel to the swell of her hips. There is a matching loincloth of the same golden scale mail hanging from a belt of gold plates. At least this is paired with black leather breeches, though they are tight as skin and tied up the sides in gold thread, revealing yet more brown skin. Her boots are the same supple looking black leather, with golden greaves buckled in place over her shins. A long black cape hangs from spiked golden pauldrons on her shoulders, trimmed with silvery grey fur.

She is utterly magnificent. She is also going to take an arrow in the gut in a matter of _seconds_ if she goes outside the walls of Skyhold in such attire. Not since the Pirate Queen Isabela has he seen someone venture into battle in such impractical clothing.

“How are you not dead or frozen with that nonsense you wear for armor, _Conqueror_?” He asks, wanting to remain defiant, and yet genuinely curious. The woman has conquered a wide swath of Southern Thedas, her foot planted firmly on the neck of anyone who would oppose her.

One of the guards holding him kicks his feet out from under him, letting his knees hit the ground hard, impact making him grit his teeth against the pain. His own robes are heavy, meant to protect from cold and arrows alike, though they have taken both his staff and the armor he wears over them. He is a _mage_ for Maker’s sake, and his armor is still more practical! Kneeling puts him at eye level with the bare skin of her stomach. She stands close enough now that he can easily lose himself in the patterns of swirling gold body paint, and smell a faint hint of perfume, heady as incense. She looks down to grin at him, teeth bared, but she does not seem the least perturbed by his insolence.

“Cassandra, the rod if you please?” The Conqueror holds out a gauntleted hand, but does not take her eyes from his face. Kneeling gives him a view of the underside of her breasts which is both breathtaking and distracting. Perhaps distraction is the point of all of this? Cassandra comes forward and hands her mistress a metal rod, covered in runes and gems, spiked dangerously at the end - he shivers for he can see that it is modelled after the control rods qunari use for their mages. The Conqueror circles behind him, still smiling and the fur of her cloak brushes his arm, making him shiver. When she kneels behind him, he is suddenly concerned that perhaps she was more insulted than she let on. Her clawed fingers circle round his neck, and though she does not squeeze, the threat is blatant and clear, the sharp points pressing into his neck.

“Hold still, Champion.” She purrs the instruction in his ear and he fights the arousal which courses through him, refusing to be distracted from what may be the end of his life. There is the sound of metal on metal, and then his hands are free and he is held stunned and silent by the rush of mana back into his body, his connection to the Fade restored. By the time he can see past the colors bursting through his skull, she stands in front of him, handing the rod back to a scowling Cassandra. She holds out her golden hand with a smile, and he takes it, allowing her to help him up. He makes the mistake of underestimating her strength and almost pitches forward at the firm tug she gives.

He is a good head taller than her. He ought to feel powerful standing in front of her now that his magic has been returned. She is nothing but a little girl in impractical clothes, playing at war. Who walked through the Fade and survived. Who has raised an army that makes the rulers of Thedas quail upon their thrones. Who has conquered half or Orlais and a quarter of Ferelden. Who is apparently keeping the former Knight Captain of Kirkwall for a concubine. _Damn her_. He does not feel powerful, he feels intimidated.

The Conqueror smirks at him as she makes her way back to her dais, as if she reads every thought in his head. She leans down, stroking her fingers gently through Cullen’s hair, bending to whisper in his ear. Cullen is looking intently at Hawke, running the tip of his tongue over his pink lips, leaving them glistening. When the Conqueror extends a hand and helps him up, Hawke is rather relieved to see Cullen is not completely nude under his coat. Like the qunari he wears a very small loin cloth, held in place with gold chains.

“Hawke, we have a great deal to discuss I think. Cullen will show you to suitable guest quarters. You will join us for dinner in my chambers once you have had a chance to bathe and change into something more practical for indoor usage.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, obviously unsurprised but still frustrated. The Conqueror smiles at her Right Hand, and he senses the embers of an old argument. She nods to her remaining concubines, and they both rise. The qunari stands head and shoulders above Rainier, and Hawke realizes the strap on his chest holds a massive battleaxe, also made of dawnstone. The tiger seems to belong to him, because it also rises, pacing to stand beside him.

Rainier sways a bit on his feet, but seems utterly unconcerned or shamed by his nakedness, or the cage around his cock. He is looking at the Conqueror intently, gaze hungry, and Hawke once more fights down a treacherous arousal. Cullen distracts him by making his way down from the dais and taking Hawke’s arm, skin warm through the sleeve of his robe.

“Come, _Champion_.” Was Cullen always this snide? And this pretty? Hawke cannot recall. “I will see that you are well taken care of.”

Hawke lets himself be tugged toward a doorway leading from the hall, but not before he looks over his shoulder to see the Conqueror smiling at him, pale eyes gleaming eerily.

_Perhaps I would have been better off in the dungeons._


	2. The Lion and the Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I cannot decide if you are meant to be the sweet or the stick.” Is his reply. Cullen smiles, a slow, lazy thing, accompanied by the close press of his body, his bare chest against Hawke’s shirt as he leans forward, mouth only a breath away from Hawke’s ear.
> 
> “I am meant to be _both_.” His tone is sweet as honey and hot as Hawke’s own fire spells. He pulls back then, letting go of Hawke’s wrists and smiling a wicked smile. “Or neither. _That_ is up to you. Now come, I assure you that you do not wish to be late for dinner.”

Skyhold is massive. How in the Maker’s name a fortress of its size was simply “found” by the Conqueror to claim as her own is a mystery. It is also a mystery that as Cullen leads him through a twisting maze of corridors, the stone beneath their feet grows warmer instead of more chill.

“Knight Captain…” He begins, thinking courtesy may gain him answers.

“No.” Cullen’s tone is sharp as he turns, stopping in an empty stretch of hallway, amber eyes narrowing at Hawke. The corridors are well lit with carefully arranged torches, but even still Cullen’s pupils are wide. “I am no longer a Templar. I have been freed from my bonds to the Chantry and no longer pledge myself to their cause.”

Hawke is startled by the heat in the other man’s tone, for Cullen was ever the most dutiful of Meredith’s subordinates, echoing her hatred for mages as if it were his personal Chant of Light.

“Very well,” Hawke says, rolling his eyes in exasperation, “do you have a title or are you merely one of the Conqueror’s _pets_ , referred to only by your name in affectionate tones like the another great cat?”

Cullen’s smile is not what Hawke expects, wide and amused, warmed by no small amount of lust.

“My lady may call me anything she wishes, and I assure you she says my name with great _enthusiasm_. You, on the other hand _, Serah_ Hawke, may call me Commander.” He pushes closer as he says it, and Hawke is reminded that Cullen is both large, and nearly naked. Hawke can see his own distorted reflection in the smooth gold surface of Cullen’s collar. He stands to his full height, topping Cullen by an inch or two, likely aided by wearing boots instead of his bare skin. Hawke was not cowed in Kirkwall, and he will not be cowed in Skyhold, not by an usurper’s plaything.

“How easily your devotion to your idols wavers, _Commander_. Does the Conqueror know she follows in the footsteps of Andraste and Meredith, worshipped and then abandoned? Have you ever been your own man or have you always needed a woman to kneel for?” His tone drips with amused disdain, and his gaze does not waiver from Cullen’s. Those kohl lined eyes widen and his head snaps back as if Hawke has delivered a mind blast. It takes little enough time for him to regain his composure though. Cullen bares his teeth in what is no more a smile than the snarl of an animal.

“Well I suppose you would be an expert on wavering devotion, wouldn’t you? Tell me _Champion_ , do any of your precious companions still cleave to you? Have they all scattered to the winds since your lover chose destruction over your affections?”

Hawke feels fire wreathing his fingertips before he can even think of it, anger igniting like the black powder of the Qunari. The Fade seems closer than usual in the walls of the keep - perhaps that is why Cassandra insisted he be bound.

“I would not do that were I you, Hawke.” Cullen’s voice is low, sweet and poisonous. He places one large hand against Hawke’s chest, not a shove as he might expect, but nearly a caress as he leans in closer. “I may have left the Order, but I did not leave my skills. Do you think the Conqueror would truly send an unarmed man to escort a mage? I need not run you through to render you helpless.”

Their faces are close now, gazes locked in the moment of clarity before vision blurs from proximity. Hawke’s heart thuds with an aggravating mix of rage, fear, and unsettling lust. Cullen should be nothing more than a joke, a painted plaything, and yet he is more terrifying in his oiled skin than he ever was in plate mail. Weighing his options, Hawke extinguishes the flame in his palm and smiles, baring his teeth in imitation of Cullen.

“Ah, yes, you remind me of my manners. A man doesn’t enter a woman’s home and singe her well groomed pet. Perhaps you should continue your duty and show me to my quarters?”

Cullen huffs a breath and Hawke can feel it warm on his skin, before the other man backs up, his expression returning to his lazy smirk, lids slightly lowered in satisfaction. Hawke would give anything to blast the look from his face, but he has heard of the punishments that the Conqueror metes out. He has no desire to discover if the rumors of torture and slaughter are true.

They continue to make their way through the halls, silent but for the sound of Cullen’s jewelry and their footfalls. Servants and soldiers pass them, curious eyes for Hawke, and respectful nods for Cullen, as if the man still wears armor and not glorified small clothes. He is in a world of madness. Finally they take several flights of stairs and enter a hallway where the torches are replaced with fine lamps of Dwarven make, their light clean and even. The walls are adorned with fine hangings, though he does not understand the scenes they depict. Cullen stops before a broad wooden door banded in decorative metalwork, opening it and waving Hawke inside.

Hawke cannot help but feel a pang of longing, for it bares a certain similarity in feel to his own long abandoned chambers in the Amell estate. The bed is canopied, hung with drapery of deep green and gold, the coverlet rich brocade and piled with cushions. The floor is strewn with thick furs, and there is a high, leaded window that gives a breathtaking view of the river basin beneath the towering walls of Skyhold. There is a small desk, a generous wardrobe, and a massive fireplace with two well cushioned chairs before it. In the corner an armor stand has been placed - his staff and armor are both there, the armor polished and carefully hung, the staff mounted on a rack obviously made for the purpose on the wall. He wonders again how much of the scene in the great hall was for show.

The door closes behind him as he examines the room, and he nearly jumps when he hears the jingle of Cullen’s bangles, not realizing the man had followed him inside. He walks through the room as if it is his own, and pulls aside a thick hanging to reveal a doorway to another small room.

“Come Champion, her ladyship would have you properly groomed before you enter her presence, and it is my honor to attend to you.” There is a certain fine irony in the tone he uses for the word _honor_ , and Hawke blinks, brow furrowing in disbelief.

“You cannot possibly serious. You expect me to what, let you scrub me down like some Tevinter bathhouse attendant? Will you rub oil into my skin and massage me as well?”

The look Cullen gives Hawke is unnerving for the sheer heat of it. He looks the mage over from the toes of his boots to the unruly mane of his hair, uncut for the last year as he traveled in secret.

“Hmm… I would say such treatment depends greatly on what you look and smell like when you are clean.” There is no denying either the amusement or the interest in his tone. Hawke gapes, momentarily shocked, and then glares at Cullen.

“I do not need a bathing attendant. I am perfectly capable of getting clean on my own. And if I wanted help it would _not_ be from an ex-Templar turned concubine who blindly follows tyrants!”

Cullen simply raises his eyebrows and lets his fur collared coat fall from broad shoulders, draping it across one of the chairs beside the fire. He walks toward Hawke, kohl lined eyes narrowed, bangles jingling. His muscles shift under pale skin, chest, stomach, arms and legs all beautifully sculpted. There are scars on his chest, his arms, his legs, a burn mark on his shoulder that looks for all the world like a handprint. Yet they do nothing to mar his beauty, only highlight the danger he presents for surviving it all.

“What you need or want is of little relevance to me, _Champion_. All that matters is what my mistress wants, and she would have you bathed, thoroughly, to exacting standards, and _with_ my assistance.”

Then Cullen’s hands are at his waist, unbuckling his belt with purpose and precision. Hawke starts to shove him away, but Cullen catches his wrists, his grip just shy of painful. Hawke’s eyes dart to his staff, then back to Cullen who is looking exasperated.

“Enough Hawke. Think what you will of me, but I am no real danger to your virtue, if you have any. I was sent to attend you, to show you the hospitality of Skyhold, and I have no wish to face my lady’s displeasure if I fail to do so.”

“I do not give a damn what your _lady_ wishes.” Hawke snaps, attempting to take back his hands. He is no small man, and his muscles are well developed from years of wielding a staff and fighting, but there is a force and density to Cullen that he does not think he can match without his magic, and his magic in an unknown quantity when faced with an ex-templar who claims to still have his powers. He knows himself a liar, but he has no desire to give in to such an obvious attempt at seduction.

“We both know that is a lie.” Cullen says, pressing his thumbs gently into the muscle of Hawke’s forearms in a way that feels far better than it should.

“I cannot decide if you are meant to be the sweet or the stick.” Is his reply. Cullen smiles, a slow, lazy thing, accompanied by the close press of his body, his bare chest against Hawke’s shirt as he leans forward, mouth only a breath away from Hawke’s ear.

“I am meant to be _both_.” His tone is sweet as honey and hot as Hawke’s own fire spells. He pulls back then, letting go of Hawke’s wrists and smiling a wicked smile. “Or neither. _That_ is up to you. Now come, I assure you that you do not wish to be late for dinner.”

Cullen walks to the curtained doorway and disappears inside the smaller room, from which the sounds of splashing and running water soon drift. With a sigh and a curse Hawke finishes what Cullen began, unbuckling his belt and then sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his grime caked boots. Perhaps it is not _completely_ unreasonable that the Conqueror does not want an unwashed apostate in her chambers. Hawke suspects that he has become rather pungent in his travels, though his nose has been so cold since entering the Frostbacks that his sense of smell has been somewhat deadened. His shirt follows the boots, and his pants and smalls the shirt. He leaves them in a heap on the floor for lack of any other obvious solution and strides toward the bathing room. He hopes that there is some way of warming water in there, but the realization of his own filthiness makes taking even a cold bath with an unwanted audience less of a hardship than it might otherwise be.

When he enters the bathing room it is to discover that it is very warm, and not nearly as small as Hawke had assumed. It is lit by more of the dwarven lanterns, and there is both a large bathing tub set into the the stone floor, with steps to make it easier to enter and a mirrored vanity arranged with shaving tools and an assortment of what seem to be unguents and cosmetics.

Cullen is to the left, standing in a flat, sunken area where a slatted wooden stool has been placed over what appears to be a drain. He is lining up a selection of bottles along a small shelf set in the wall. There is a steaming stone basin of water jutting out from the wall as well. Hawke is not at all sure what to make of it. His joke about Tevinter bathhouses seems oddly appropriate.

“What on earth is all this? Must everything in this place be a production? All I need is soap and water.”

Cullen turns to him with a grin, which is a bit alarming. His eyes do not linger on Hawke’s naked body, but the spark of interest in his quick surveillance cannot be denied. Hawke simply stands with his arms akimbo, refusing to hide. He is well built and he knows it, though he is perhaps more grateful than he should be that the room is not cold.

“My lady would say you sound extremely Fereldan. I will admit to a certain sympathy for your desire for simplicity, but I assure you, you will find yourself enjoying this alternative. Come and sit.” He gestures to the wooden stool, which Hawke eyes skeptically. When he does not move to sit, Cullen throws up his hands, gold bangles clanging dramatically. “Maker’s breath Hawke, sit down already, ‘tis a bath, not a Harrowing.”

“Only one of us has experience with Harrowings, so for all I know this might be one.” Still, he takes a seat. The faster he lets Cullen do whatever it is the Conqueror wants, the sooner he can be rid of the man and hopefully his misguided physical attraction.

“If demons of stubbornness existed, I would assume you were already an abomination.” Cullen replies, and his tone is dry as the Hissing Wastes. Before Hawke can say anything further, Cullen approaches with a pitcher of water and a bottle. He dumps the water over Hawke’s head with no further ado, leaving him sputtering indignantly. Hawke turns to glare and Cullen simply shrugs and sets down the pitcher and opens the bottle, pouring a generous portion of whatever it is into his hands. At least the drain in the floor makes perfect sense now. He shoves wet hair from his face, still watching Cullen suspiciously. The other man just rolls his eyes and steps forward, rubbing his hands together to spread the substance before burying his fingers in Hawke’s unruly hair.

Whatever it is, it smells delicious, and Cullen’s strong fingers and short nails scraping against his scalp feel far better than he has any desire to admit. It has been so long since he has felt another person’s hands on him in anything other than violence that it takes him a few moments to unclench his muscles and relax his shoulders. Cullen works silently but with obvious patience, firmly running his fingers through knotted hair, making Hawke grit his teeth at the pain. Still, it is oddly relaxing even if the entire situation strikes him as indescribably odd. He has faced demons and blood mages, Qunari hordes and bandits, taken out darkspawn and religious fanatics but sitting naked in an ancient Elvehn fortress having the former Knight Captain of Kirkwall see to the cleanliness of his hair is perhaps the strangest thing he has ever done.

“Tell me, do you do this for the Conqueror? The other concubines? Her footstool seems as if he would require a great deal of grooming.” Easier to be insulting than to let himself relax too far into the attention. Cullen’s fingers, unsurprisingly, give a sharp tug to his hair, making his scalp smart.

“Her footstool is named Thom Rainier. And I do not touch him at all if I can avoid it. He is a liar and a murderer.” Cullen’s voice is full of a cold anger and his hands are quickly losing any sign of gentleness.

“Well I can only assume it is the lying that bothers you, as I recall murder being a specialty of the Templar Order.” There is no point trying to hide the venom in his tone, for Cullen is well acquainted with his opinion of the Templars.

“I never ordered my men to kill a family in cold blood and then left them to be hanged for the crime. All while taking the identity of another and lying about it to a woman I claimed to be devoted to.”

Well… that is certainly not what he has been expecting. Cullen’s hands simply clench for a moment, then he resumes his ministrations. Hawke, despite his animosity, decides to let the subject lie. He has no desire to grow sympathy for Cullen in the slightest.

“And the Qunari? I would have thought you would despise them as much as mages after Kirkwall. Have you chosen to surrender to the Qun? How does one even accommodate a weapon of that size?”

Cullen chuckles, pulling his hands from Hawke’s hair and refilling the water pitcher. This time Hawke has enough warning to close his eyes before the warm water is pouring over and through his hair.

“Well if anyone would be an expert on Qunari weaponry it would be _you_ Hawke.” Cullen points out snidely, earning a choked laugh from Hawke. “Tell me, was that your only duel with the Arishok or simply the final one?”

Impossible to reply without risk of a mouth full of water, but Hawke is sorely tempted. The years away from Kirkwall have obviously made some very serious changes in both their lives if Cullen can joke so snidely about sex with one of the Grey People.

“As it is, The Iron Bull is not longer of the Qun. He became Tal-Vashoth to remain loyal to our lady and to save the lives of his men.”

Hawke sputters, pushing his hair away from his face.

“The Iron Bull? _The Iron Bull?_ Was The Steel Ox taken then?” It earns him a face full of clean water, but it is worth it.

“Bull is a good man.” Is all Cullen says in response. He moves in front of Hawke, and before the mage can object he is using the same pleasant smelling substance to begin cleansing Hawke’s overgrown beard. He nearly lifts his hands to bat Cullen away. It is too intimate, too much to have Cullen before him, touching his face. Cullen has drops of water sliding down the sculpted muscle of his taut stomach and it is a distraction that Hawke cannot bear, knowing how quickly any reaction will be visible. He closes his eyes, choosing to imagine that the concubine is nothing more than a simple barber paid a few coins for his services. Cullen continues his ministrations in blessed silence, perhaps a gift from Andraste.

Cullen’s fingers leave his face and he hears a splash of water. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing what is coming. The water pours over the lower half of his face, careful this time and more controlled, while Cullen gently rubs calloused fingers through his hair again to make sure all trace of dirt and cleaning oil are removed.

“You should trim this.” Cullen says. “Better still, remove it entirely before someone mistakes you for a bear.”

“Ha! What is one more beast in the Conqueror’s menagerie?” He opens his eyes to see the slight scowl on the other man’s face. An idea strikes him. “Or perhaps I look too much like your fellow concubine for your taste? Not all men with dark hair and impressive beards are murderers Commander.”

“Oh really, can you name one?” Cullen asks with a snort. “I witnessed your good work in Kirkwall, Serah Hawke. You certainly cannot play the innocent.”

“Killer I may be Cullen, but I draw the line at murderer. ‘Tis hardly as if I ever _premeditated_ the death of bandits, blood mages, dark spawn, or demons.”

Cullen looks at him, and if it is possible for a look to encompass an entire world of irony, his amber gaze manages it.

“You do not have enough skill with a blade to split hairs that fine Hawke.” He stands back up and gestures for Hawke to do the same. “I will wash your back.”

Hawke’s shoulders twitch at the thought, but at this point there seems little point in denying the request. After all Cullen has made no untoward advances. Hawke has not had a chance to bathe in anything more than a perfunctory way in freezing Ferelden streams for nearly a month, and the warmth and comfort of the bathing room is proving a bit more delightful than he truly wishes to admit.

Cullen gathers a few things from the shelf of supplies, as well as more water and sets it on the stool Hawke has abandoned. Hawke rolls his shoulders, attempting to loosen the remaining strain from being bound. When a warm, wet sponge is pressed against his back, the skin firmly scrubbed, it is all he can do not to groan with appreciation. He has no intention of giving Cullen such satisfaction. The sponge stops after a few moments, and Hawke feels blunt fingers move against a place on his back. He flinches away from Cullen’s touch, knowing which scar the man has found.

“Stop.” He grinds out. He does not generally mind his scars, and it does not hurt, but this one can only ever remind him of failure. He shies away from memories of blood and regret, concentrating again on the feel of the sponge on his back, soapy water flowing down over his ass and thighs. Though the room is warm, he shivers like a fly stung horse, struggling between pleasure and pain.

When the sponge dips lower, sliding over the curve of his backside he goes still, overwhelmed by the sensation. It has been well over a year since he last bedded anyone. The memory of it is vague and unsatisfactory, wrapped in a haze of grief and alcohol. Now he is helpless as his body reacts to the firm touch like a starved thing. It is no gentle caress, simply a strong hand holding him still at the hip, while Cullen uses the sponge with efficiency and a thoroughness that brings a blush to Hawke’s cheeks and a stirring between his legs. Then the sponge continues down his thighs, brushing between them, and down to cross over the sensitive skin behind his knees. By the time Cullen is cleansing his ankles Hawke is painfully hard and breathing seems a challenge.

Warm water pours over him, rinsing away grime and suds alike. Cullen fills the water pitcher one more time, making sure he is thoroughly cleaned. The water on his back and legs is like silk, and when Cullen puts his hand on the middle of his back to bend him forward slightly, the warm water flowing between the cheeks of his ass, over his balls, and between his thighs is more than he can stand. He bites his lip hard, until the pain is enough to fight back the moan that tries to escape him.

He hears Cullen moving but ignores it, refusing to acknowledge his own obvious arousal, having no desire to see if the concubine is in a similar state. He tracks the other man by the sound of his bangles, so he manages not to jump when warm hands come to rest on his shoulders.

“Shall I stop, Champion? Would you have me be the sweet, the stick, or neither?” The heated honey of his voice is deeper now, a puff of warm breath against his neck that sends a shiver down Hawke’s spine. He should say no. He knows it is all a ploy, a clever way to bring him under the Conqueror’s influence, and damn her for it all. It is ever the plight of a mage to fight temptation, but to fight it awake and outside the Fade? He has no true practice or training for such a battle.

“I am not clean yet, Commander, would you leave a job half finished?” He knows Cullen’s low laugh to be his damnation, but the feeling of his calloused hands shifting over the wet skin of Hawke’s chest feels like salvation instead.

“I shall endeavor to be very _thorough_.” Is Cullen’s reply, right before his hands disappear from Hawke’s shoulders. He makes a noise of protest which earns him a chuckle from Cullen. Then the man is back, pressed full length against the wet skin of Hawke’s back, one muscular arm slipping around his waist, to hold him steady. It is immediately obvious that Cullen is as aroused as Hawke, the length of him pressed hard and insistent against Hawke’s backside. The loincloth has been abandoned at some point, so there is nothing to come between their heated skin.

Cullen’s chin rests on Hawke’s shoulder as his free hand begins to cleanse him again, the sponge moving in slow circles over his chest. Fingers brush his nipples, and he has no doubt it is deliberate. There is no hiding the shudder that runs through him at the touch, and he receives a pleased noise from Cullen as if in reward for his sensitivity. The sponge descends ever lower, slow and thorough and driving Hawke mad with the slow pace. He should be happy to savor another’s touch, but instead he finds himself desperate, as if he might reach his finish before his cock is ever touched.

When Cullen’s restraining hand lowers to caress the sharp ridge of Hawke’s hipbone, he bucks back, unable to take the teasing any longer. Cullen laughs and pulls away, but his laugh is breathless. Hawke turns to glare, only to see him pick up the pitcher and return to rinse Hawke’s chest standing before him instead of behind. Throwing any pretense of indifference to the winds, Hawke stares hungrily at Cullen, finally completely naked.

In contrast to Rainier, Cullen is almost entirely hairless - even the hair on his arms and legs has been removed. The only bit that remains on his body is a line of dark blond hair that extends down from his navel to a neatly trimmed patch above the thick, jutting length of Cullen’s erection. All other hair as been removed, his balls hanging flushed and on full display between his heavily muscled thighs. Hawke’s own cock seems to be growing even more painfully hard, the head fully emerged from his foreskin. He shares none of Cullen’s careful grooming, the thatch of black hair around his own cock thick and dripping from his ablutions.

Cullen smiles widely at him, not the least perturbed by Hawke’s scrutiny. Instead, he waits for Hawke to finish, holding his gaze for long enough to make sure he is focused, before going gracefully to his knees before him. He somehow manages to look both confident, and yet servile, and the combination is torturous in its appeal.

“Cease your teasing concubine. You have work to do.” Hawke’s own voice is husky with desire, and it takes considerable will not to sink his fingers in those tousled blond curls and fuck into the man’s scarred mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath as Cullen begins to clean him from his feet up, apparently having no intention of easing Hawke’s suffering any time soon.

“Lift your foot, Champion.” He instructs, voice sly. Hawke does as ordered, though he must brace one hand on Cullen’s shoulder. Cullen flinches ever so slightly when Hawke’s hand brushes the hand shaped burn scar, but he does not let that deter him from thoroughly cleaning Hawke’s foot. Still, he can sense the other man relax slightly when he shifts his grip to the scar free shoulder. Once both of his feet are clean, Cullen works his way with excruciating slowness, stopping just short of the juncture of his legs. It is maddening.

Cullen fetches another jug of water, rinsing his legs and feet carefully. This time it is not the sponge he uses, instead taking a small bar of soap and lathering his own hands. Then, with a grin as wicked as a demon, his hands are between Hawke’s legs, one hand cupping his sack, the other shifting back to run soapy fingers along the skin behind them, one knuckle pressing against his perineum in a brief and devastating tease. Both hands proceed higher, fingers threading through Hawke’s pubic hair in the most distracting and delightful fashion, carefully cleaning without ever touching his shaft. He begins to wonder if _this_ is the torture he has heard rumors of from the Conqueror’s court.

Then Cullen’s slick hand wraps around his shaft and Hawke’s head snaps back, his mouth opening in a silent cry of pleasure so strong he fears he will release across Cullen’s hand like a callow youth. He digs his nails into the skin of his palms, biting deep as he focuses on the pain to keep the fire in his belly from raging out of control. Cullen is thorough, but his touch is light, carefully cleaning Hawke’s shaft, all while cupping his balls in his soapy hand, massaging and lathering them. Hawke feels as if madness may overtake him, and then both hands are gone and he is gasping with _want_.

Cullen looks up at him, eyes half lidded, pupils blown wide in arousal, and the sight of him kneeling before him is more heady than he could ever expect. Cullen lifts the pitcher once more to sluice Hawke clean, hand moving between his legs to make sure he leaves no trace of soap behind. Hawke is panting by the time he is finished and biting his lip in addition to his clenching his fists.

Then, oh Maker in his mercy, Cullen leans forward, and slides the tip of his tongue from the root of his cock all the way to its head, before sucking the crown into his mouth. Hawke cannot help it, he buries his fingers in Cullen’s hair and pulls so tight he earns a whimper, but does not let go. Cullen’s hands clutch at his thighs for support, and then he is thrusting forward into the deep, wet heat of Cullen’s mouth, only stopping when he reaches the resistance of Cullen’s throat. To his shock, and nearly his undoing, Cullen swallows around him with a moan, his eyes closing in an expression that looks for all the world like pure ecstasy.

Hawke pulls back, panting, desperate to regain control, but instead Cullen’s hand moves to grab him, holding the base of his cock tightly in one wet hand, the other rubbing against his perineum, this time with purpose. Cullen licks hungrily, tongue circling the head before sucking it into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he begins to work his way down until his lips meet his hand. His tongue swirls again inside the hollow of his mouth, spit dripping down the smooth skin of his chin, and all Hawke can do is continue to hold tight to his hair, feeling his control begin to fray. He can see Cullen’s cock bobbing between his legs, hard and red, dripping with clear fluid in his own desperate arousal.

“Cullen.” Hawke moans, warning and plea in one as he feels his orgasm approach with a desperate speed he does not even have the coherence to be ashamed of. Cullen pulls off of him, letting go of his shaft, looking up at Hawke with desperation. He lowers a hand to his own cock, wrapping it tight, thump pressing over the slit. A moan escapes from between his lips, and for an incandescent moment Hawke thinks the sound alone may destroy him.

“Fuck my mouth, Hawke.” This time it is Cullen who is pleading, and Hawke is helpless to resist the invitation, shoving himself into the concubine’s willing mouth until he meets resistance, holding there for a few breaths as Cullen _keens_ around him, throat clenching as he swallows and chokes. Hawke can barely keep his eyes open, but he desperately wants to see Cullen pleasuring himself, hand stroking quick and hard over his length, tugging his foreskin up and over his head with the frenzy of his movement. Hawke slides in and out of Cullen’s mouth, fingers fisted in his hair and feels his end rushing toward him.

“Now, Cullen, come for me.” He orders, and as if he has some magical link to him, Cullen moans long and loud around him, the vibration punching a desperate shout from Hawke, right before Cullen reaches his peak, white streams of semen spurting from the ruddy head of his cock. The sight is the final assault to Hawke’s senses, and his orgasm hits him, whole body going stiff as he holds Cullen in place. He feels Cullen swallow, once, and then again, before he has the sense to release the man’s hair. Cullen pulls back with a desperate gasp, Hawke’s semen spilling from his lips to follow the saliva on his chin. He reaches forward to wrap his arms desperately around Hawke’s own quaking legs, breathing heavily but showing no particular interesting in cleaning himself up.

After a few moments of nothing more than ragged breathing between the two of them, Cullen leans back, sitting on his heels and looking up at Hawke, eyes heavy, lips swollen, and face wet with seed. The sight is nearly overwhelming, making Hawke’s cock attempt a desperate twitch of interest despite the fact there is no way he will be able to reach hardness again soon. Cullen licks his lips, and circles his tongue over as much of his chin and cheeks as he can reach, and Hawke’s body twitches yet again at the very wantonness of it. Cullen smirks at him before pouring water over his soiled hand, then splashing his face clean. He uses the remaining water to rinse the errant drops of Hawke’s spend from between his legs, lest it dry in sticky flecks on his body. The sensation of the lukewarm water makes him ache with oversensitivity, but he is grateful to be clean at least.

When Cullen sets the pitcher on the floor, Hawke cautiously holds out his hand to help him to his feet. Cullen looks at him consideringly and then smiles, taking the offered aid to stand. He is smiling, and while there is undoubtedly a touch of smugness in it, the expression seems to reflect genuine pleasure. Whether the pleasure is for Hawke himself, or simply because Cullen has succeeded in his ordered seduction is impossible for him to tell.

“Well,” Cullen starts, then immediately stops, giving a cough to clear his throat, and then a rough, satisfied laugh. “I have seen to my duty and gotten you clean, and not even dirtied you up again too badly.”

“I will certainly report to your _mistress_ that her hospitality has not been lacking.” Hawke cannot bring his tone to anything more than wry, as the pleasant haze of his orgasm recedes, leaving him to wonder just what trap he has sprung for himself with Cullen’s talented mouth. Cullen just smiles again.

“I am sure she will be delighted for your report. I would recommend you avail yourself of the bath, the aqueducts under the hold are heated by pockets of molten earth in the mountains, and kept warm by dwarven runes. I am sure it will help you recover your strength. The servants will bring you suitable attire.”

“If they bring me chains and a loincloth, I assure you the Conqueror may wait for me until the Maker’s return before I join her.”

Cullen only laughs, apparently too pleased with himself to be at all perturbed by Hawke’s threats. He reaches out and runs his hands gently over the side of hawke’s face, fingers tracing lightly over his beard.

“Enjoy your bath Hawke. I shall see you at dinner. And consider what I said about the beard.”

“What?” Hawke asks, sarcasm thick in his tone. “You do not intend to stay and spy on me in my bath? I am shocked by your trust in me.”

“Oh Hawke, I have never trusted you and I do not plan to start now, but there is nothing left for me to spy.” There is a fine line between teasing and cruelty, and Cullen’s tone rides it with a precision that Hawke would never have expected. Cullen turns to leave, retrieving his loincloth from the floor of the bathing room ,before walking casually through the curtain to the bedchamber. Hawke is left with his body clean, but his mind feeling muddied.


End file.
